Chapter Three
Precisely at sixo’clock, Sir Horace’s coachman drove the shiny blue landau up to the door to take her to his mansion. By road it was several miles. They crossed a stone bridge over a river which flooded every winter and cut off his estate from the village.
They drove through gates and down the tree-lined avenue to his crenellated monstrosity of a house. A huge faux castle, it had been built only a few years ago after he tore down an Elizabethan house. Such pomposity.
In the entry hall, Althea greeted Lady Crowthorne warmly, hoping her presence didn’t affect the lady unfavorably. Crowthorne’s wife curtsied with a sour expression, her thin body clad in an unattractive shade of lavender.
The shoot had been successful with many birds bagged and the atmosphere in the reception rooms merry. As she entered, familiar faces turned toward her. Althea shrugged off her tiredness, determined to enjoy the evening and went to greet those she knew.
The thought of a pleasant evening was short lived when she saw two men whose attentions toward her had been unwelcome since Brookwood died.
A jolt of pleasure surprised her when Lord Montsimon appeared and bowed to her. She put it down to the fact that he measured up far better than the married wolves around him. He was every bit as bad as the rest, but he did not cheat on a wife and came in an altogether more attractive package. Still, she had no intention of encouraging him. His smile of greeting reminded her of his insufferable cockiness. She nodded coolly and turned back to the lady at her elbow.
At dinner, Lady Crowthorne placed Althea at the far end of the table beside Skiffy, Sir Lumley St. George Skeffington, a small, thin man with sharp features and rouged cheeks. Heavy perfume wafted in the air as he waved his hands and talked incessantly about fashion. He had designed his elaborate costume and confessed to frequently advising George IV in matters of dress before he became king.
Montsimon was seated at the head of the table, on Lady Crowthorne’s left, and was busy charming their hostess if her laughter was any judge.
After a superb dinner, which lived up to Crowthorne’s boast, Althea danced with several partners. When the musicians struck up a waltz, Montsimon beat several other men to her side. She stepped reluctantly into his arms, but the skill of both the musicians and Montsimon’s dancing lifted her mood and she began to enjoy herself.
“Sir Henry must have brought the musicians from London,” she said. “They are outstanding.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you enjoy the country?” Althea asked. She was surprised to see such an urban creature in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, and Crowthorne did not seem the type of man she expected Montsimon to associate with.
“In small doses,” Montsimon said as he swept her around the floor. “The air is invigorating. But then, when one becomes suffused with energy, there is little of the right company with which to enjoy it. What can one do?” He laughed.
Must he make every comment sound suggestive? “One might ride or hunt.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or play whist or backgammon.”
“That would certainly account for a few hours.”
“I find no difficulty in employing myself.”
“How fortunate you are not to suffer ennui from the lack of society.”
“We are fortunate tonight,” she said, smiling at her hostess who danced past and stared at them. “But sometimes society can be a bore.”
“You think so?” He studied her face. “You surely can’t be much above one-and-twenty.”
A soft gasp escaped her as she caught the white flash of his grin. He’d taken three years off her age. She smiled to herself. She was no ingénue, and he knew it. “How old I am has nothing to do with it.”
He frowned. “You’re not ill?”
She raised a brow. “I’m in the best of health, thank you for your concern.”
“Of course, you are.” His gaze roamed her face. “You’re positively glowing.”
“Dancing with you might contribute to my high color, my lord,” she said, imbuing her voice with sarcasm.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said, deliberating misunderstanding her.
“You may not be if I elaborated.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Surely you aren’t about to retire and become a recluse? I believe I just heard a collective sigh from all the gentlemen in the ballroom.”
“Not at all,” she said crisply. Was he working up to request a liaison as two other men had done? She tensed, preparing to give him short shrift.
“Do you like dogs, Lady Brookwood?”
